


The Truth Can Set You Free

by Raynidreams



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Post-Season/Series 07 Finale, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raynidreams/pseuds/Raynidreams
Summary: Jon finds out about his heritage from Sam and Bran. It takes his littlest sister to talk some sense into him. Brother-sister platonic relationship. Heavy mentions of his feelings for Daenerys. (Daenerys does not appear in the story.)





	The Truth Can Set You Free

The silence, the gaps between breaths, they stretched out like an uncomfortable minor chord.

Breaking it, "Jon?" Sam asked, voice cracking. "Did you hear me? This is good news. Right?"

Jon swallowed and blinked at him slowly, his face blank. There was no shock. No joy. His features were just... empty.

As devoid as Jon, Bran emoted nothing when Sam glanced at him for support.

"But," Sam started again. His forehead creased and sweat sprung up on his top lip. "You're the King. King of the Iron Throne." Agitated, his arms twitched by his sides, seeking something, anything, from either of the two dour Northerners before him.

At length, "It's true. I saw it," Bran intoned. "You are the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen. I saw it all."

Jon shook his head slightly, eyes locked with his brother's, pleading.

Bran blinked but remained outwardly unmoved. He continued, voice expressionless, "They married in the open, locked by their delight in one another. Then came the war. Then my father fought to reach her..."

"Stop it," Jon eventually begged, turning from them both. _My father_... Not 'our father.' Like Ghost caged, he paced, looking for a way out.

" _Aegon Targaryen_.  With her last breaths, your mother told my father your name and beseeched him to protect you."

"No." The denial was a weak scream, it lacked energy behind the word. Jon shook head again. His pacing had brought him to the fireplace where he stared down into the flames. His shoulders stood an impenetrable silhouette against that brightness.

Sam ventured closer to him. "It will strengthen your ability to call arms, here in the North and elsewhere."

"It's not important, Sam," Jon whispered in reply.

"But of course, it is!"

"Daenerys Targaryen. Stormborn. The Unburnt... She is the rightful heir. I'm Jon Snow, a bastard from the North. That's it and nothing more."

"But even as that, Jon Snow has risen to rule. Listen..." But it was Sam who quieted as Jon turned swiftly; padded around to him.

"Who else knows, Sam?" Jon switched to his brother... _not his brother_... "Bran?"

Sam answered. "Only us. And Gilly. She found the entry on Rhaegar's annulment and subsequent marriage to Lyanna Stark."

"It's too close. Too close," Jon said under his breath. He pressed his lips firmly together.

Undaunted, Sam asked, "I don't understand. I thought you'd be pleased, to know who she was after all these years?"

"But I'm not, Sam. I'm... Not like this." Jon closed his eyes. "It's going to tear me apart," he croaked.

"But why?" his friend stuttered.

Jon's mournful face switched to dismay. He couldn't form adequate sentences to describe what he was feeling.

Bran, intonation monotone, rescued, or perhaps condemned him, when he added, "Because he loves her. And she loves him.” It rang like a proclamation; a denouncement, depending upon how one looked at it.

Jon winced.

And thus laid bare, finally, Sam understood. "You and...?"

"Cousins can marry, but...we are..."

"She's your aunt, Jon," Sam filled in helpfully. 

"Yes. I got it!" Jon bit out. He gestured down Sam's alarm as he fought to control the storm inside of him.

Around, the room had begun to grow hazy, like it did on the battlefield. The smells of human life: old food, older sweat, sour wine, peat burning, overwhelmed his senses. Their closeness did; Sam's awe-struck, pitying expression next to Bran's inscrutable, oracular one. It was all too much to process.

"I need some air," he stated. At the door, he inclined his head, "Tell no one. No one, understood?" 

 

 

 

 

Ghost in tow, Jon walked out, out into the corridor where guards stood taller, through to the Great Keep, where people bowed low, and further, out into the courtyard where Dothraki and Unsullied spoke with Free Folk, their eyes tracking him. There were people everywhere when all he wanted was to be alone to think. He exited through the Godswood gate, off into the drifts. He ignored the shouts for him to wait. Clear from sight, under the trees, he broke into a run and ran, ran until he felt his heart would burst. Confined within Winterfell's battlements, legs mired by the deep snow, it felt like he'd run for miles, when in fact he knew he'd gotten nowhere. It was the dejected run he'd often made as a child when ostracised by Lady Catelyn or, when casually made out as, 'The Bastard,' for no reason. His lonely little body had pumped hard to free him from himself, but it hadn't worked then and wouldn't now. His circular pattern crossed for a fifth time, Jon stopped. Beautiful-gaunt, red leaves, bright, he collapsed before the Weirwood tree. He pulled himself to his knees and then buried his face into his quiet companion's white fur. Ghost panted rhythmically after their run. His tongue out, cooling him.

Crouched, Jon absorbed Ghost's earthly animal smell. He muffled a shout against his ruff. Ghost was as familiar to him as hearing his own heartbeat and just as uncanny: he would never be able to divine or truly control him. Even now, Ghost remained an enigma. As he stroked the direwolf, Jon recalled the dragon, Drogon's, scales. He remembered the awe he'd felt at the sensation of that pebbled skin beneath his palm; how alien and intimate the experience was. He pulled back from the direwolf and looked into his red eyes. Unfathomable, they glinted like rubies. Ghost's ears pricked up at something and he tilted his head as a curious puppy would. Then he yawned, dispelling anything otherworldly about him. Jon hummed ruefully, glad for that grounding; sobered by the animal's calm assurance of his place in this world.

"So is it just you and me who thinks this is all mad then eh, boy?" he asked, rhetorically. He rubbed the velvet of one of Ghost's ears, focus on the tree.

"No, it's not," replied a voice from behind him, making him start. He swivelled around on one knee.

Arya, her hands up in a realm-wide gesture of peace, appeared from out the cold mist, an ironic eyebrow held high. Her boots crunched through the top layers of snow as she moved over to Jon and Ghost. For his part, Jon moved on his knees until his back rested against the ancient tree. He looked up in time to see Arya bow her head to it. She then knelt by his side.

Together, the three of them looked out across the barren expanse of white. Winter was indeed here. The sounds of the castle in the distance were nullified by the falling snow, cocooning them in quietude save for the groans of the wind through the branches of the tree-God behind them. 

Arya, slight by his side, leaned close until Jon was forced to raise his arm and let her in. She put her head back on his shoulder and through her calmness, like with Ghost, something of the vice around his ribs unscrewed further.

He sensed rather than saw Arya look into his face. "You've been weeping," she told him simply.

Jon wiped at his cheeks.

"I feel like screaming more than crying," he muttered. "Howling, as if I want to claw at my skin."

"I've done a lot of that," she replied, evenly. "But I haven't been able to have a good cry in years."

He clutched her tighter and she let one tear slip out. Aside, he watched that crystal drop form and then freeze on her pointed chin.

"Very gentle and ladylike."

She waited.

"No red face and blotchy cheeks," he explained.

Arya's lip curled. "Really?"

"Then again, no. I was mistaken. You've got snot on your nose."

She chuckled in her chest, then sighed. The wind took her cloudy breath and spirited it away. He felt her purposefully tilt her head further to get him to meet her gaze. He wanted to avoid it but found he couldn't.

"I don't suppose you're out here by chance, are you?" he asked, humour cooking his words, but in the sweet way rotten things are.

"If you want to keep secrets, you need to be better at checking in corners," she replied.

He glanced around then, but Ghost wafted his tail to indicate no one was near.

Jon snorted, then became solemn. "I can't take it in, Arya. I almost can't believe it. It's too insane for words. A Targaryen. Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark's son.” He said each word staccato, marking them out distinctly.

Arya elbowed him. "Want me to compose a ballad?"

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"I guess not. You've heard me sing. Age has not cured my tone deafness," she joked.

"You're still not too big for me to upend in the lake, you know?"

"I'm too fast for you to catch."

"Cat quick." He inhaled. "You always were. Something which age has honed, I'm told." There was a question in there.

At that, she eased off on examining him and they stilled, seemingly to concentrate on the muted snow fall.

"You have tales to tell, too," he commented eventually.

"I do. But mine only effect who I have become, not who I might have been."

"Are you chastising me?"

Arya's brow twitched. Instead of replying, she held her hand up to Ghost politely. He sniffed at her wrist, then sneezed at her scent. His lupine grin caused her to smile.

"Nymeria's alive, brother wolf," she told him.

Ghost's ears flicked and he watched her studiously. "She's not far, if you'd like to see her," Arya added.

"Your wolf's alive? She didn't follow?"

Arya's smile was enigmatic. Beatific. "That's not her, Jon."

"I missed you," Jon said gently, after regarding her face.

"You gave me the key to surviving, you know. My sword. I wasn't so quick when they came, but I was quick enough. I'd learned to be when dancing with her, every part of my body guided as I trained. It was like moving to a tune played in the next room. A pattern I knew but had to chase to understand."

Jon's stomach clenched - his mind flashed back again to that buried connection he'd felt to Drogon. To how he'd felt the instant he'd set eyes upon Daenerys.

Abreast him, Ayra was motionless. He knew she'd caught his apprehensive movement. Silence was the Northern way. Like ice through stone, their resilience stood the test of time. It shattered their opponents piecemeal. Slowly. It was a stance they were both comfortable with, to out-wait an adversary. Inwardly amused, Jon thought it was a good job he'd never stood up against the will of his sisters. He'd always lose.

"I miss them. Our family. I missed you so much, Arya. When things were tough, I often reminded myself of your spirit and it urged me on."

As they'd sat, Arya had worked her hand around his leather jerkin. She squeezed her skinny but firm arm close to his midriff. He took it as a reply. "Fate is full of grotesque whimsy," he mused.

“Utterly capricious.”

"If I believe them..." He cleared his throat. "Then my parents desire for each other once tore the Severn Kingdoms apart. So many dead, because they could only see themselves. And Daenerys, her father. Siblings. Nephews, nieces... All of them gone. Brutally. So many years she's been alone. So many have died... Because of..."

"If you say _because of me_ , I will punch you in the face. No, I'll get Brienne of Tarth to do it. She might knock some sense into you."

He snorted and then quieted. "I can't help but feel complicit somehow."

Arya raised a clenched fist and knocked his temple firmly. He bumped his head against her fist twice, and then sighed again.

"I have to tell her."

"Yes."

"Do I have to tell everyone else?" he asked, as if she'd assumed the personification of his conscience.

She attempted to dispel that. "If it's wider council you seek, I'd suggest Sansa. Or your Ser Davos. He seems sensible."

"What would you do?"

"I'd tell her. Now. As soon as you get back. Don't wait for the right moment. There won't be one. If you delay, it will only break you apart later on when it's worse.” She wet her lip.  “I know that the truth is frightening, Jon. But lies are deadly.”

He propped his head on hers, understanding the veracity of her statement, considering all circumstances.

“She trusts me.”

"Then live up to it. Beyond the Dragon Queen, well. It's your secret. Try it on her first. If you're lucky, she'll have you executed and it'll save you the embarrassment of announcing your name is Aegon Targaryen, whatever of his name... The something of the And..."

He playfully tweaked her ear, derailing her.

She shifted tack, "Maybe Bran and your friend Tarly have something right. This could be a good thing."

"How?"

"You're not the most awful of kings."

"You're going to make me blush."

Arya winked at him. She primed herself to move, cleaning ice flakes from off her knees. The evening cold had settled rapidly. "We know what it's like to be on the fringes, Jon. Liminal, you're a shore between the Northerners and the Wildlings. _The Free Folk_ ," she amended. "You have done things no Watch Commander has ever done. And she, she has done things no King has ever done. You see the truth of this world. How the innocent suffer and how goodness doesn't often save us. I'm... I'm no less guilty of being party to violence.” She stopped wiping herself down and pushed one thumb to her lip and bit the nail. It was a childish gesture that caused Jon a moment of distinct nostalgia. The child she had been fused with the careful woman beside him and he held-fast to her honesty, ready for her to continue. She dropped her hand from her mouth and inhaled purposefully. “Justice is whatever power decides it is. Savagery shouldn't be the only thing rewarded. You should make your rule mean something for the innocent. For every baker boy and taproom girl.  _Use the power of your name._ You never know, perhaps this will unify you. Don't Dragons marry their own?”

Jon coughed, embarrassed.

Arya confronted him. “Sansa and I trusted each other, and together, we ousted a lingering shadow over our house. Do the same. Trust her to trust in you still. If you love her, you will."

"And if it ends in disaster? If she burns me alive?"

"What goes around comes around." Arya's grin was positively wolfish.

He smiled, lopsided. "What were you just saying about savagery?" Daenerys' beautiful face rose up in his mind, never far from his thoughts. "And I wouldn't want hurt to come to her. Ever." His voice faded out.

"You do love her, don't you?"

He was measured in replying. "We've all loved and lost so much. I feel weak thinking about it, what could happen. I thought you were dead. The last woman I loved was killed by the Watch. The thought of losing Daenerys and you all after finding you scares me so much I can hardly breathe. It's so acute. I'm worried I'll lose sight of the war now I have more to lose than ever." He clasped Arya closer. "I'm terrified by the depths of my feelings. People put their trust in Ned Stark's son. It turns out I'm not his son and there's a big part of me that wants to take you all and run."

"It's good to care. You clearly do. About everyone else, don't for one moment think that they follow you because of Father. The North remembers but it won't for very long when the Night King comes. That's why they need you."

"I'm tired of battle," he said. He bowed his head. "I died before. I don't know if you knew that. The Red Priestess, Gendry said you had met, she brought me back. I thought my feelings had died with my old self but then Sansa rode into Castle Black. It's selfish to say, but all I want is to keep what I have."

"We're not meant to be perfect, you know. Even our father wasn't. I loved him with all my heart, but he had his faults. He shouldn't have kept the truth from you."

"He did it to protect me, sacrificed his honor for me."

"He could have told you that Lyanna was your mother sooner." Arya brushed her hair out of her face. Her cheeks were getting paler as her nose grew redder from the plummeting temperature. "A name doesn't change who you are inside, you know?" Her freezing fingers took his. "A huge part of growing up, of aging, is essentially coming to terms with what we are not and aiming to be better. Don't brood over this, Jon. The world's ending. Enjoy what time we have."

He gripped her fingers hard and then released her hand. "When did you get so wise?"

"I'm Northern. I came to a conclusion in the South that being so sets you at the knife edge of calm acceptance and towering rage. It puts things in perspective." She beamed at him again and an answering grin lit his face before it fell. She clicked her fingers near his face, rousing him. "You're not your parents, you know. You're not repeating their mistakes."

Sensing it was time to return, toes numb, Jon stood and trailed a hand with which Arya pulled herself to her feet.

"I think I'm over my shock. I should go heed your advice,” he breathed.

“First sensible thing you've said.”

He curled a rough brotherly hand around her nape and propelled her on. Ghost bounded off before them.

Walking past Jon, seriously and low, Arya stated, "I'm sorry, Jon. It's completely fucked up."

He laughed then, full throated and with true, albeit cynical, amusement. "Yes, yes. It fucking is."

Reaching to link her arm with his, she carried on, "Snow. Stark. Targaryen. I don't care. You're still my brother. And if she's got anything worthwhile in her, she'll be happy to have you as her family."

"I hope so."

Taking each step as it came, they left the Godswood.  The snow fell, mournful and fast.


End file.
